


can't take my eyes off of you

by kay_emm_gee



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - Greasers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-08-10 04:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7830880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rhysand and the Nightwings were trouble with a capital T, what with their leather jackets and grease-stained jeans and cars that tore through the high school parking lot so dangerously that they left scars on the pavement.</p><p>That type of danger was intoxicating, though, and Feyre wanted to know what it was like: to feel the engine rumbling, the wind in her hair, and her heart pounding in her chest as the pedal was pushed to the floor. She wanted a taste of all of that and, just maybe, a taste of Rhys too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The screeching of tires cut through the crisp morning air of the Prythian High School’s front lawn, and everyone noticed. Conversations didn’t stop, and no one looked over at the midnight blue car tearing into the parking lot (they knew better than to be caught doing that), but still everyone _noticed._

It was only because Tamlin’s arm was around her that Feyre felt him tense as car doors slammed and deep laughter echoed over to their place on the front steps. She watched as he and Lucien exchanged glances. Hollering--cut by a sharp giggle--drew closer, and it seemed like all the students waiting outside for the morning bell to ring drew and then held a collective breath.

“How about you walk me to class?” Feyre murmured. When Tamlin didn’t answer, she reached up to press a kiss to his ticking jaw. “C’mon. Walk me to class _._ Now.”

He kept his eyes on the approaching group. “In a minute.”

Feyre pursed her lips and glared at Lucien, who was studying the pavement between his shoes. When his shoulders hunched under her stare but the rest of him stayed stationary, she rolled her eyes, let out a silent sigh, and braced for impact.

The sun ducked behind a cloud just as the Nightwings rounded the corner of the school, all leather jackets and feral grins, cigarette smoke and brash laughter, engine grease and pure arrogance. As usual, loud Cassian and sharp Azriel were in the lead with their grease-smeared white shirts, ripped jeans, and slicked up hair. Bubbly Mor in her pink poodle skirt and ribbon-tied high ponytail and fierce Amren with her red pedal pushers and neck scarf were right behind, sharp contrasts against each other and the boys. Feyre couldn’t take her eyes off them, just like everyone else on the lawn--even if she only dared watch them from the corners. They were danger and thrill and excitement, and whenever they walked by, Feyre could feel it crackle against her skin enticingly. (Tamlin pulled her closer before it hooked her entirely, as if he could sense its hold on her, every time).

The four Nightwings were impressive on their own, but it was the dark-haired boy who strolled behind them, calm power in every step, who made hallways clear out and sent a shiver down Feyre’s spine whenever he was near. Rhys was the leader of the Nightwings for a reason. He slicked up his hair the same way and had the same grease on his clothes and wore the same black leather jacket with the stitched mountain and stars on the back as the others, but he wore it like he did everything: with the type of confidence of someone who expected to hold the world in his hand one day.

He sauntered behind his friends across the lawn, hands in his pockets and on the verge of smirking. The smell of gasoline wafted over as they drew closer, a sickly sweet scent that made Feyre’s head feel lighter. She rubbed her hands on her grey wool skirt to give them something to do other than itch to rub away the smear of grease on Rhys’ chin.

She tensed when she realized what she was doing, and thinking, and wanting. As her cheeks flushed with heat, she gripped the edge of the concrete step she was sitting on. Pushing away any more stray thoughts, Feyre turned her head from the approaching rebels and instead focused on the yellow and white of Tamlin’s letterman jacket.

Her spine went rigid with alertness when she realized the Nightwings had paused on the steps right next to them. As a shadow came over them, she heard Tamlin growl softly.

A low chuckle that sounded like the rumble of a car engine was Rhys’ only response.

“Keep moving,” Tamlin snapped. “Maybe you’ll make it to class finally. Though that won’t be enough to keep you from flunking out, I bet.”

“Just saying good morning,” Rhys said, all barely contained, sharp amusement.

“Fuck off,” Tamlin sneered.

The shadows increased, as Cassian and Azriel had not doubt flanked Rhys. Feyre placed a hand on Tamlin’s rumbling chest to keep him sitting. The Nightwings weren’t anyone to mess around with.

She felt annoyance flare in her gut as Rhys continued his prodding. “Good morning, Tamlin.” Then he paused, and she sensed his satisfaction in that deliberate silence before he said, in a slow, deceptively pleasant drawl, “Good morning, Feyre.”

Tamlin stilled, and suddenly Feyre realized this time, conversations in the yard had stopped. She could feel the eyes of everyone on her, on _them_ , and that they were waiting: for a fight, for a word, for something, anything to snap the thread of tension weaving the three of them together.

She glanced up at Tamlin, who was glaring murderously right over the top of her head. “Tamlin,” she hissed. “Look at me, Tamlin.”

He wouldn’t, though, not even when tried to tip his chin down firmly. She heard Cassian let out a guffawing cough, to which Lucien responded by rolling his eyes dismissively. Feyre was contemplating retreating into the school in hopes that Tamlin would follow her and thus not continue to engage in this absurd pissing match. Without many better options, she was just about to stand up, but then she felt a soft tug on her ponytail.

“Feyre, dollface,” Rhys purred. “It’s rude not to respond when someone greets you.”

Tamlin didn’t have time to lunge forward because Feyre sprung up to face Rhys head on herself. That smudge of grease was still there on his chin, and she noticed more on his neck that the popped collar of his leather jacket didn't quite hide. She ignored the way her heart pounded in her chest as she locked gazes with him. Fury burned through her too hotly to feel much of anything else (or that may have been the heat rolling off him, as close as he stood to her).

“Don’t ever touch me again,” she announced through gritted teeth.

Her words echoed off the brick of the building loudly--enough for most in the yard to hear, probably--but they didn’t seem to phase Rhys. In fact, a pleased grin spread slowly across his face, mirth dancing in his eyes. He was laughing at her, and she nearly shoved his broad chest in frustration.

Rhys grinned at her a moment longer before saying, “See you later, Feyre.” Then he winked at her before walking backwards up the steps as he followed the rest of the Nightwings into the school.

As she watched the double doors clang shut behind him, Feyre inhaled sharply, only just realizing she had been holding her breath. Her lungs burned as air filled them again, the kind of burn that was neither hot nor cold but somewhere in between. Instead of numbing her, the sensation lit her up like a live wire, on the edge of something dangerous.

She jumped when a hand gripped her waist tightly.

“Don’t worry,” Tamlin whispered in her ear. “I’ll get the team to take care of him.”

The look he exchange with Lucien--the receiver to his quarterback--made her hum with equal parts trepidation and irritation. She was about to tell Tamlin that he may be her boyfriend and the reigning king of the senior class but she could take care of herself just fine, but the ring of the first bell cut her off. Noise swelled in the yard again as students gathered their books and bags and wits to head in for the first class of the morning. Feyre clutched her own books tighter as Tamlin pulled her into his side and walked her through the doors.

He had done that every day since they started dating, but somehow, for the first time, Feyre wasn’t paying attention to the weight of his arm around her waist. Instead, she was waiting to feel the spark on her skin from challenging eyes--ones that seemed to expect so much more of her than anyone else’s--watching her every move.


	2. Chapter 2

Feyre strode along the side of the brick school building furiously. Tamlin had _promised_ that football practice would be over by four. He had promised that would be there to drive her home. They were still mid-drill when she went over to the field though. He hadn’t even looked over when she tried to get his attention to see if he could leave early. Now she was stuck contemplating either walking all the way home, or waiting until he could drive her.

The latter wasn’t an option, because it gave Nesta too much time to snoop around for her hidden stash of money. She would spend it on jewelry or ice cream for her and Elaine, and then they wouldn’t be able to buy enough groceries next month. So Feyre knew her feet would be swollen, sore, and beyond blistered tonight, but she had to get home--she had to.

Irritated as she was, she strode around the corner to the front parking lot without looking up. Right at the steps, she crashed into someone. The books in her arms tumbled to the ground, as she almost did a moment later. When she regained her bearings, she saw Mor straightening her ribbon-tied high ponytail.

“Sorry,” Feyre stuttered, bending down to gather her books.

“Not a worry!” Mor replied cheerfully. Feyre was caught off-guard when Mor bent down as well to help her. “I was flying down the stairs faster than a Mercury.”

Feyre nodded but didn’t say anything. Mor seemed like the nicest of the Nightwings, what with her bubblegum smile and bell-like laughter. She still wore the leather jacket, though, and Feyre knew that smiles and laughs could turn sharp and cruel on a dime. So as soon as her books were collected, she muttered a quiet thanks and hurried off.

She was just walking past the front sign of the school when the rumble of a motor sounded behind her. Glancing back, Feyre caught a glimpse of a midnight blue car crawling slowly along. She didn’t miss the blonde girl driving and dark-haired boy sitting in the front. _Mor and Rhys._

When she picked up her pace, the car did the same. Even when it kept rolling along beside her, she kept her focus straight ahead.

Then from the passenger seat he called out, “Hey, dollface!”

Feyre jerked to a halt and finally looked at them. On the far side, Mor was smiling at her kindly, lifting one hand off the wheel to wave. Rhys was hanging out the side of the car, not quite smiling at her. She could see it there in his dark eyes, though--a teasing smirk.

“Hi,” she replied curtly. The cool fall breeze tugged at her skirt, and it billowed around her knees. Mor’s ponytail bobbed too, but Rhys hair, slicked as it was, didn’t move at all. The rest of him was just as unflappable, now, and always, from class to fights to races. Or at least she had heard the rumors; she hadn’t been down to the whispered-about tracks where Rhys and his like held court.

“The prince doesn’t have a chariot to take you home in?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

Feyre scowled at him. “I felt like a walk.”

“In those shoes?” He glanced down towards her saddle shoes, the ones with the holes in them because Elaine’s had been worse and they only could afford one replacement this year.

Before Feyre could retort, Mor huffed, smacked the back of his head, and then yanked him down into his seat by the back of his jacket. “Excuse my cousin. What he’s trying to say through all the sarcasm is would you like a ride home?”

“No, thank you,” Feyre replied primly. She started to turn away when Mor called out.

“I’ll kick him out.”

“What?” Feyre and Rhys asked in astonishment at the same time.

“I’m driving, so I decide who rides with me. And right now, I’m feeling like a little girl time is in order.” She smiled, and Feyre saw a flash of the sharpness she knew was hiding underneath the girl’s softer front.

“This is my car,” Rhys argued. “So--”

“And right now I’m the driver,” Mor retorted. “So get out.”

“No, really,” Feyre protested. “I’m fine.”

The cousins paid her no mind, just stared each other down. She watched Rhys’ jaw twitch for a moment, and then he surprised her by opening the car door.  He got out smoothly, swift and confident without a misstep. Winking at her, he said, “Like she said: driver makes the rules.”

As he ambled away, humming under his breath, Mor motioned her for her to get in. Feyre hesitated, glancing at Rhys. He was still facing away from her, shoulders hunched so that the mountain-and-stars insignia of the Nightwings stretched across his broad back. When she looked back to Mor, she jerked her head as one last encouragement.

Finally, Feyre got in. The seat was worn, warm--from Rhys, she realized and her cheeks flushed--and soft, and she sunk into it. Her books settled in her lap after she buckled herself in. She thought she saw Mor hide a smile at the precaution and tried to relax. It helped when Mor put the car into drive and pulled forward slowly, no jerking the wheel or squealing tires. Feyre let out a breath and eased back.

Just before they rounded the corner, she glanced in the large side mirror and saw Rhys. He was watching them go, hands cupped at the back of his head so that it pulled his leather jacket up, the edges flapping in the wind like wings. Feyre shivered and turned her eyes forward, listening to the leaves crunch under the car tires instead of her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

* * *

 

Her heart was pounding for an entirely different reason when Mor pulled onto her street. Even from there, she could recognize the bicycle on the lawn outside of her house. Tomas wasn’t rich enough--or rebellious enough--to own a car.

Mor had barely even stepped on the brake before Feyre threw open the door. She yelled a thanks over her shoulder, books banging against her chest as she ran for her house. Slamming inside, she saw Nesta and Tomas jolting apart on the couch.

Narrowing her gaze at a furious, red-cheeked and swollen-lipped Nesta, Feyre demanded, “Where’s Elaine?”

“In her room, studying,” Nesta responded, acid in her tone.

“And shouldn’t you be too?”

Nesta stood, fists balled at her sides. “Shouldn’t I be telling you what to do, little sister?”

Feyre bit her tongue so hard she thought she might taste blood. She wanted to yell and scream and tell Nesta that she would happily give up her mantle as family caretaker if someone else wanted to take it on. She knew Nesta never would though, and Elaine was too timid, and her father--who was no doubt holed up in his bedroom right now--had already failed at it. So it was just up to her, and if she didn’t want to make things even harder on herself, there was only so far she could push Nesta. Still, she couldn’t let this go on.

Turning to Tomas, she said, “You should go.”

“Why?” Nesta interrupted nastily.

“We’re just talking,” Tomas challenged, standing as well but just behind Nesta. “What do you care?”

Feyre glowered at him. Two days ago, she had seen him at the diner where she waitressed romancing a blonde. The week before, it had been a redhead. He was always out with girls, but he never took Nesta out--he wasn’t about to squire the _poor_ girl around in public--and it made her blood boil.

“Please leave,” she asked again through gritted teeth.

Nesta didn’t move, and neither did Tomas. Stuck on deciding what to do next, she didn’t hear someone come in behind her. Mor’s chirped _hello_ made her jump. Jerking her head around, she saw the girl walking towards them, that razor-sharp smile on her face again.

“Next time, Feyre,” she said in a saccharine voice, “you make sure to tell me to drive faster if you have to get home to take out the garbage.”

She adjusted her ponytail and then popped the collar of her leather jacket. Feyre watched her fingers trace along the lines of it carefully, then noticed Tomas was doing the same but with much more apprehension. Nesta was turning more red, getting angrier by the second. She wasn’t stupid, though; she knew the Nightwings reputation just as well as anyone who lived in their town. So after a dark look at Feyre, she turned on her heel and stomped into the kitchen. Tomas gathered up his jacket, stuttering out apologies to them both. He skirted the edge of the room before slinking out the door.

Mor whipped around, expression calculating. “Did I overstep?”

“No,” Feyre replied quietly. “Thank you.”

Her stance relaxed, and then she quirked a smile at her. “Anytime, sugar.”

On her way out the door, Mor blew her a kiss with such melodramatic flair that Feyre almost laughed. She watched her flounce to her car and pull away, feeling something warm bloom in her chest.

Mor was wild and dangerous but she also, just maybe, might be someone like a friend.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly Feyre starts running into Rhys everywhere, and with him, comes grease stains and a bundle of emotions she’d rather not deal with.

As a new song started playing over the diner’s jukebox, Feyre spun on her heel and headed back to the serving area behind the register. She slid an empty tray through the small window into the kitchen and leaned on the back counter. Even though it was sticky with traces of whipped cream, she stayed there for a moment to take weight off her sore feet. Her evening shift had been a busy one so far; she barely remembered her break from an hour ago. After giving herself one more moment, she blew out a long breath, straightened, and turned back to the full, clamoring diner.

Immediately, a girl on one of the red vinyl-covered stools caught her eye and motioned for a refill on her vanilla shake. Feyre smiled tiredly at her and passed the message on to the chef back in the kitchen. That seemed to set off a chain reaction across the diner, as customer after customer called to her. Her saddle shoes squeaked against the black-and-white tile as she flit from table to table, dropping off food, picking up plates, taking orders, and ignoring corny compliments on her eyes or her hair.

On one trip back to the counter, she ran into Alis, the owner.

“Everything running smoothly?” she called out with a smile as Feyre stacked plates of burgers and fries onto her tray.

“Absolutely,” Feyre replied.

Alis’ smile softened as she took a second look at her, not doubt taking in the tired slump of her shoulders. “You know I would double your pay if I could, honey.”

Feyre waved her words away even as she swallowed thickly. If she was being honest, she should look for another, better-paying job, but Alis was incredibly understanding about her need for flexibility in working hours. That was the one thing that kept her at the diner. With her sisters being how they were, being able to switch around her schedule at a moment’s notice was a requirement that most bosses wouldn’t be so accommodating about. And Alis was extremely accommodating.

With one more smile, she left Alis to checking in behind the scenes and returned to getting customers their soda pops and sundaes. Darting and twirling around as fast as she was, she barely looked at her customers. So it caught her off guard when she placed a basket of onion rings down in front of someone sitting at the counter, and his face made her do a double-take.

“Hey,” Rhys said, steepling his hands together. Feyre assumed it was to hide a smile, and so she frowned at him.

“No, I cannot get you free food, and even if I could, I wouldn’t, so don’t ask.”

He rolled his eyes and flicked the parchment paper lining his basket of food. “I can pay for my food, don’t worry, dollface.”

Feyre huffed and went to move away, but she froze when Rhys leaned forward. He was poised halfway over the counter, his face a breath away from hers.

“You got a little–” he paused, reached up, and brushed his thumb across her cheekbone, “–cream right there.”

Feeling her cheeks blush furiously, Feyre hurried out from behind the counter, and Rhys’ chuckle followed her as she went. She felt his gaze follow her too, but after a few glares over her shoulder, he stopped. He didn’t leave, just went about eating his food. At one point, she saw him complimenting Alis, who blushed and smiled like a schoolgirl. Another time she saw him spinning slightly on his stool, fingers drumming on the flecked counter. She didn’t even realize how often she was looking over until an hour later, when she glanced across the now quieter diner and startled at seeing his seat empty.

She grimaced at herself, stacking dirty dishes onto her tray with a little too much vigor. The clinking of ceramic against glass finally jolted her back to reality: cleaning tables, taking orders of the few customers remaining, starting the closing up process. She dragged herself behind the counter and wearily pushed the full tray behind the window for the dish boy to grab.

When she turned around, she nearly jumped out of her skin seeing someone new leaning over the front counter.

“How’s it shakin’?” Lucien asked in an amused tone.

“Tell Tamlin I’ll be out in twenty minutes,” she answered.

Feyre watched him turn towards the front windows and hold up two fingers at the car idling near the door. The headlights flashed in acknowledgement.

“I hate this,” Feyre sighed, starting to wipe down the counters. “Keeping you guys out late before mornings when you have practice.”

Lucien shrugged. “Tamlin doesn’t mind driving you around. And I don’t mind keeping him company.”

“I mind. My dad has a car, which he never uses, so if I just learned to drive–”

“Really, it’s alright. We’ve got you.”

Feyre turned and pursed her lips. They had this conversation before, and the result was always the same. She still didn’t know how to drive. Not that she hadn’t mentioned learning to Tamlin and Lucien before, but they’d just exchanged amused glances and changed the subject.

As she got things in proper order for closing, Lucien ambled over to the jukebox. From the corner of her eye, she watched him browse through the options. She couldn’t help but smile when he put on one of her favorite songs, glancing over his shoulder and winking. The music helped speed her up, so before she knew it, she was putting on her coat and heading to Lucien near the door.

Just as she went to push outside, Lucien held her back.

“You have something on your cheek.”

“Oh, no.” Feyre rubbed at her face, expecting her hands to come away sticky. Instead, her fingers felt a little slick.

“What is that?” Lucien asked, staring down at her fingertips, which were smeared faintly with black.

“Nothing,” Feyre said quickly, swallowing down the real answer: _engine grease_. Lucien stared at her, and she masked her nervousness with a small smile. “Just some cooking oil.”

Then she pushed out into the brisk night, with her boyfriend’s best friend on her heels. The wind whipped up as she walked to Tamlin’s car, and she hopped its chill would be enough to cool down the flush that was rising up again on her cheeks, the ones that had been smeared with car grease and still recalled too well what Rhys’ fingers felt like brushing against her skin.

* * *

Feyre tried to focus on the chalk words scrawled across the board at the classroom’s front, but the twisting of her stomach made it difficult. Her gut clenched, and then it heaved, and then she couldn’t just sit there silent among her equally bored classmates anymore. She raised her hand and asked to go to the bathroom. Ms. Mercenry frowned a bit, but still nodded. Carefully, Feyre rose from her seat and forced her pace to stay calm and slow as she exited, even as her stomach threatened to embarrass her.

The classroom door hadn’t even shut completely behind her before she started running for the nurse’s office. She was halfway there when she realized she wasn’t going to make it. Stopping dead, she swiveled, looking for a bathroom door. The best she could immediately find was a janitor’s closet with a trashcan. Hunching over, she started vomiting right into the large barrel. Her hands gripped the sides to keep it from rolling away. She prayed no one could hear her.

On the third round of her stomach emptying itself, she heard the door creak open. Composing herself for a millisecond, she straightened to find Rhys staring at her.

“Swell,” she groaned before she was forced to lean over the barrel again.

To her surprise, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he simply walked over to her and gathered her loose hair in his hands. As she continued to heave, Rhys held it out of the way, a quiet but strangely comforting presence.

When she felt truly empty, she straightened and tried to turn to face him, but he kept holding her hair.

“Hold on,” he murmured. Then he switched her bundled hair to one hand, and she heard rustling.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, scowling at how weak her voice sounded.

“Hold on,” Rhys repeated, with a gentle forcefulness this time.

While she wanted very badly to whip around, sudden movements were not the best idea at the moment. Standing still, though, was dangerous too, because she was suddenly getting warm shivers down her spine from the way Rhys was now playing with her hair. Rather, not playing, but seeming to gather it into a ponytail. When he finished, she heard the faintest of sighs and then him stepping away. Gently, she reached up and felt a rubber band twisted neatly together to hold her hair out of the way.

“All I had, sorry,” he offered as she turned to face him.

Feyre stared at him, at lack of an expression on his face. It was unsettling, because Rhys _always_ had an expression, whether it be mirth, derision, smugness, anger, or mischief. Never had she seen him so blank, and it puzzled her. She opened her mouth to push him, but then her stomach clenched in warning.

Concern washed over his face, and that eased her mind, if not her stomach. Guiding her towards the door, he said, “I’ll walk you to the nurse.”

“No, I’ll be fine–”

He glared at her. “I’m walking you.”

Feyre waited for annoyance to flare up, but it didn’t. She assumed her sickness was simply overwhelming every other semblance of emotion, but to be safe, she put another foot of distance between her and Rhys as they walked down the hallway. She caught him rolling his eyes at that, but she didn’t react. It was all she could do to keep from heaving again, and getting to the nurse’s office before the next period ending was priority.

Thankfully, she got there in time. Waving Rhys off at the door, she walked in with her head held high. Her steadiness lasted long enough for her to briefly explain her problem to the nurse before she found her head over a trashcan again. The nurse clucked soothingly, but it didn’t stop Feyre from another round of vomiting.

“Is there anyone we can call to come get you?” the nurse asked.

“My boyfriend, Tamlin Springer–” Feyre paused for another bit of coughing up, “–can drive me home after his practice this afternoon.”

“Honey, you should be at home sooner than that. Now, in fact.”

“After class is–” she had to take another pause,  “–alright.”

The nurse clucked again, disapproving this time, but Feyre heard her call to a student in the hall to take a note to Tamlin’s class. Relief flooded her, but it was soon replaced by exhaustion as she tallied the exact number of class periods she would have to make it through until she could go home. Closing her eyes, she laid down and steeled herself for a very long day.

The sound of the next bell gave her a little hope. _One down._ She kept her eyes closed even when the office door opened. When she heard the light footsteps approach her, though, she cracked one lid open.

“You look terrible,” Mor said, her tone teasingly cheerful.

“Thanks,” Feyre replied dryly. “I had no idea.”

“Do you need help standing? Because I’m stronger than I look.”

“What?”

“I’m taking you home, of course.”

Feyre opened both eyes wide in surprise. “What?”

“Alright, I know you’re ill, but I also know you heard me.”

“But you have class.”

Mor grinned. “Like a Nightwing’s never cut a class before.”

“But how did you kn–” Feyre cut herself off with a sigh. _Rhys. Rhys told her._

Mor crouched down, her skirt poofing around her bent knees. Quietly, she added, “He knew you wouldn’t let him drive you, so he asked me.”

Feyre tried to frown, but she just didn’t have the energy. At the moment, she was just grateful, because she could go home, now. So she just motioned for Mor to help her up. They notified the nurse on the way out, who gave her a small plastic bucket for the journey and looked relieved that her patient wouldn’t have to wait around all day. Feyre was relieved too, and surprised at how that relief was intertwined with resentment towards Tamlin, even though he might have skipped out of class early if she had asked. But she hadn’t asked, because she was so sure what his answer would be ( _acquiescence, but reluctantly_ ). Maybe it wasn’t fair, making assumptions, but she also wasn’t about to take the chance by asking Mor to go get him instead of taking her up on her offer.

She only vomited twice on the way home, which was progress. Mor walked her inside, set her up in her bedroom, and made her promise to call later that night to let her know how she was doing.

Just as she was leaving, Feyre called out, “Thank you.” She swallowed, and continued, “And tell him thanks also.”

Thankfully, Mor just nodded, waved, and closed the door behind her. Almost immediately after she left, Feyre drifted off to sleep. Dusk was falling when she woke, and her mouth was dry. Carefully, she sat up and ventured out into the kitchen. Nesta was at the kitchen table, making sandwiches for her and Elaine.

“You look terrible,” her sister said bluntly.

Feyre ignored her–as well as the fact that there were only _two_ sandwiches being made, not three, even though she knew that Nesta knew she was home–and simply got herself a glass of water. It was all her stomach could probably handle at the moment anyways.

She took her first sip as Nesta picked up the plates and headed towards the living room. On her way out, she sniped, “You have something disgusting on your neck. Just so you know.”

Feyre rolled her eyes, but she still stopped in the bathroom on her way back to her dark, quiet, _peaceful_ room. Twisting her shoulder forward and down so she could see the back of her neck, Feyre leaned in close to the mirror. There, across the nape, was dark smears, shining a bit in the bright light of the tiled room. She reached up to wipe it away with her hand, anticipating the slick feel of the grease, because she knew, with only one look, what it was and how it had gotten there. She sighed–not in annoyance, or exasperation, but because of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on yet.  

Gripping the counter with her now dirtied hands, she stared at herself in the mirror, wondering when she had become the type of girl who didn’t mind a little bit of messiness.

* * *

Feyre was walking down the hall, relieved that she would arrive at her next class early, when she was unceremoniously jerked by the wrist into an empty classroom.

“ _What_ are you doing?” she hissed when she was spun around to face Rhys.

“Feeling better?” he asked commandingly, as if he deserved the answer simply because he wanted it.

She scowled at him, and he just cocked his head, folded his arms over his chest, and waited. Wanting to win this game he had started, she stared mutely back with her hands on her hips. They watched each other, and the longer she stared, the more she didn’t want the silence to break. Her gaze traced over his broad shoulders, noticing the worn comfortability of his leather jacket, the way it fit him like a second skin and like armor at the same time. When she realized she had been staring at his chest–his very _solid_ chest–for much too long, Feyre flicked her eyes up. His stare met hers, and for the first time, she realized that his eyes were such a dark blue that they were almost purple.

Her lips parted at the thought, and his expression seemed to soften.

“Are you feeling better?” The question was quiet this time, cautious, pleading.

Feyre relaxed, took a breath, and nodded.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad.” A beat passed, enough to let the sound of the hallway chatter break into their bubble, and then he quirked half a smirk at her. Her gaze narrowed, but before she could step away, he clasped her wrist again. Quickly he brought her hand to his forehead, which also brought her within a breath of him as well.

He hummed while she glared, and then declared, “Well, you don’t feel warm, so you must indeed be better.”

“You’re supposed to feel the patient’s forehead, not put their hand to yours,” she sniped. She tried jerking her hand away, but he didn’t let go. Instead, his hand moved up, so he was gripping her forearm. “Rhys, let me go.”

She tugged one more time, and then he released her. It was so sudden that she stepped back a few paces, hand dangling uselessly at her side. His half-smirk turned into a full one, and he winked at her. Irritated–both at his teasing and how damn good he looked when he was smiling–she turned on her heel and stalked towards the door.

So caught up in her annoyance, she didn’t think about the timing of it all. She walked out the door, and was only aware that Rhys was walking out right behind her, when she stepped into the hall and suddenly felt eyes on her. Not Rhys’, but everyone else’s. Her cheeks burned because it didn’t look good, the quarterback’s girlfriend walking flustered out of an empty classroom with the leader of the Nightwing’s casually at her back.

There wasn’t even a moment of silence with the stares; the mundane chatter immediately turned to speculative murmurs and snickers. Feyre simply tipped her chin up and strode forward; she had been doing just that her whole life, and silly rumors weren’t going to stop her now. She made it about four feet before she faltered, because there was Lucien and just in front of him was Tamlin, standing right in the middle of the hallway, looking half-heartbroken and half-furious.

The same mix of emotions swirled up in her, because she _hadn’t done anything_ but also…she’d be lying if, late at night, she hadn’t _thought_ about doing something with Rhys. So Feyre just stood there, gaze locked with Tamlin’s, with what felt like the entire school looking on. Her boyfriend broke their stare first, and as he looked down at her hand, his expression tensed. When she glanced down as well, she saw the reason for his anger: her entire wrist was covered in faint, grey lines, smeared swirls that encircled her wrist and streaked up her arm. She hadn’t even felt the grease on Rhys’ hand when he was touching her, and her cheeks burned, because she had been so focused on all the other things he was making her feel by being so close.

She and Tamlin didn’t make eye contact again. He just looked away and then turned around. Lucien gave her a sad look and then followed, as he always did. Feyre closed her eyes, because she knew that he wasn’t her boyfriend anymore. She waited for the tears to come, but they never did. The halls quieted as students moved on to their classes, she kept standing there, eyes shut, waiting for her emotions to settle.

When silence settled over the hallway again, she opened her eyes and let out a long breath. Then she strode forward with purpose once more, not stopping once as she headed for the exit. In a burst, she fled through the front doors of the school, not caring that she was cutting class, and bounded down the steps smiling, because for the first time in a very long time, she felt free.


	4. Chapter 4

It wasn’t as hard as Feyre expected, going to back to school. There were the glares from Tamlin’s teammates, Lucien’s mixed glances of pity and betrayal, and of course her ex-boyfriend’s furious avoidance of looking in her direction at all. She didn’t _not_ notice them, but she found that she didn’t care. The lightness in her steps was still the same as when she ran out of the school two weeks ago, free free _free_. So she just kept moving, through the halls, and through the semester, like she was practically flying.

Only when that high started to lessen a bit did she notice the reason why the glares and stares hadn’t progressed to anything nastier. Cassian and Azriel suddenly were in her line of sight more. Or, rather, just _out_ of her line of sight. She only caught glimpses of their black jackets when she turned quickly enough or stole a glance out of the corner of her eye. They didn’t approach her, or even look at her. They were just--there. First she grit her teeth and ignored them, then she grit her teeth and tried to catch them following her. They just seem to disappear whenever she tried, like puffs of smoke.

Another week of them trailing her like shadows, and then she finally got the drop on them. It took climbing out of the ladies’ room window and sprinting back around to the hall to catch them loitering across from where they last saw her going inside. Stifling the gasps from her run, she cornered them quickly, tipped her chin up, and pinned them with a hard stare.

“Why are you following me?”

Immediately they flicked a glance towards each other. When they looked her way again, Azriel’s expression hadn’t changed: still stoic and uninformative. Cassian, however, was fighting a grin. She narrowed her gaze, and that made him lose the battle. With full-blown amusement, he casually answered, “Heard you were looking for a driving instructor.”

Feyre stared dumbly at him.

He raised an eyebrow, and Azriel cocked his head. She had to look twice, but somehow Feyre was starting to notice a glint of amusement in his dark eyes as well.

Realizing they were serious, she snorted. “The Nightwings are going to give me driving lessons.”

“Know anyone better equipped?”

“If I want to live past my first lesson, yes.”

“She’s not wrong,” Azriel commented dryly as he nudged Cassian, “if you’re the one teaching her.”

Cassian scoffed, and Feyre pursed her lips. She wouldn’t survive learning from _any_ of the most dangerous street racers ever to hit their small, backwater town. Her heart pounded faster, just thinking about it. Still, no one else had offered her this chance before--not her father, not Tamlin, not Lucien. This could be not just her best chance, but her only chance.

So, with caution but also certainty, she replied, “Fine.”

That seemed to catch both boys off-guard. They stared at her, Azriel in curiosity and Cassian in delight. He then rattled off where they should meet for her first lesson in one short breath--as if he was expecting her to change her mind before they could make plans--before dragging a still puzzled Azriel away.

Feyre sighed as she watched them go, excitement and anticipation building as she considered what she had really just gotten herself into.

* * *

When Feyre showed up to the empty parking lot near the abandoned warehouse the following Saturday, only Cassian was there. He was grinning, and as she got closer she scowled at discovering why. He was wearing a helmet, as well as three layers of clothing for makeshift padding.

“I think I’m more in danger of your driving habits than mine,” she sniped.

“Safety first,” he said mockingly.

Feyre just rolled her eyes before stepping around him. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she forgot about her smug instructor for a moment as she relished the feel of the steering wheel under her hands. It felt _good_ , to be in the driver’s seat, in the position of control. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling as she looked towards Cassian again.

He smiled back at her, this time without a trace of teasing. It was a genuine smile, one of understanding and camaraderie.

“You look mighty fine behind the wheel, there.”

“I’d look better with wind in my hair,” she replied.

Cassian chuckled, then nodded. “Then let’s get to it.”

He jogged around to the other side of the car, and Feyre felt a thrill go through her, because it was about damn _time._

* * *

Four weeks of lessons later, and Feyre wondered why she bothered to spend time places other than behind the wheel of a car.

“Christ,” Cassian growled as they swung back into the parking lot and halted abruptly. “I never thought I’d meet someone with worse lead foot than Mor.”

Feyre rolled her eyes, blood still singing from the little race around town. Mor had proclaimed her a natural early on, which had made her both proud and daring. And as much as Cassian was grumbling at her now, he had been whooping just as loudly as she and Mor back on the road.

“I resent that,” Mor said haughtily from the back seat, flicking Cassian’s ear. She rode along for most of Feyre’s lessons--though not on Azriel’s days anymore, because the tension from whatever was _not_ going on between them almost resulted in Feyre crashing into a lake--and occasionally taught her too.

“I take it as a compliment,” Feyre added, causing Mor to blow her a kiss.

Cassian groaned again, so Feyre revved the car teasingly. His hand flew out to stop her from shifting out of park, which just made her laugh.

“Scaredy cat,” Mor drawled.

He flipped her off instead of responding, and though Feyre laughed, she relented and turned the car off. As they climbed out to switch places so Cassian could drive her home, she dared ask, “Coming back for another round tomorrow?”

He just smiled knowingly at her, and her stomach dropped. “Ah.”

“Tell Rhysand hello for me,” he teased.

With a huff, Feyre grumbled under her breath, “You’ll see him before I will.”

Cassian and Mor’s laughter was cut off by the sound of the engine rumbling to life and then the screeching of tires as they pulled out of the parking lot.

* * *

Her lesson with Rhys the next day went as well as any of hers with him had: fine, until he reached over to adjust her grip, or he shifted in his seat, or laughed, or made eye contact with her. Feyre grit her teeth every time she found herself distracted by him. It was _ridiculous_ really, because he didn’t appear to be even trying to make her lose her focus. Instead, he was patient and funny and clear in his instruction. That just made it all the more frustrating that it was all on her end.

Except, sometimes, when she’d glance at him out of the corner of her eye, she would see...something. A tenseness in his shoulders, caution and car in the way he looked at her. Those little glimpses saved her from going crazy thinking it was just her who felt that _something._

* * *

Two more lessons with him later, and she couldn’t take it any longer. They were speeding down the middle of a one-lane road, but she slammed on the brakes regardless.

“Shit,” Rhys hissed, as he braced himself on the dashboard.

Feyre just turned quickly in her seat to face him and demanded, “Why do you keep looking at me?”

“To make sure you don’t drive us into a ditch,” he sniped back, without missing a beat.

She glared at him, even as he quirked a smug half-smile at her. Still, he was holding back from a full grin, and she grasped onto that. She wasn’t going to let either of them hide behind half-truths any more.

“Rhys.”

He stared at her, and she felt something in her chest unfurl, and her heart stuttered at the intensity of him. She didn’t let her words stutter, though, as she pressed onward. “Why do you keep looking at me, Rhys?”

“Feyre,” he sighed. His eyes darted away from her face. She wasn’t having it. Reaching up, she grabbed his chin and forced him to face her, to continue facing her, them, _this._

“Rhys,” she drawled.

“I look at you,” he rasped, “because I can’t take my eyes off you. Whenever you’re around, I can’t help but look at you. When you’re not around, I close my eyes and I still see you. Your smile, your strength. You are everywhere, Feyre. I see you everywhere, and so I can’t ever, don’t _want_ to ever look away.”

His voice was a whisper by the end. His eyes were closed too. Feyre smiled, and slowly leaned up and out of her seat. As her lips brushed his, she heard his breath suck in. It was the last sound she heard besides the rush of blood in her ears as the spark lit between them. Because she wasn’t kissing him any longer; he was kissing her, and it set her alight. His large hands gripped her waist tight, hauling her over the console onto his lap. Feyre bit his lip in retaliation, but then his fingers found the hem of her shirt. He smoothed his calloused fingertips along her skin, and so she ran her hands through his hair, tugging his head so she could deepen the kiss and regain control.

He let her do that, and let her shrug his jacket off his shoulders, and kiss her way down and back up his neck. Rhys didn’t stay idle during her exploration, through. His hands mapped her, kneading and teasing until she was breathing her name against skin over and over.

She was just about to reach for his shirt to take it off when the beep of a horn made her shriek. Rhys’ hands tightened around her waist, and she swore she heard him growl. The horn sounded again, along with a muffled, annoyed shout.

Rhys turned around, scowling, and Feyre peeked over his shoulder. A car was idling behind them, rumbling and honking impatiently. She felt a pang of annoyance herself (she did _not_ appreciate the interruption), but before she could flip off the intruders, Rhys was moving. She yelped as he flipped her around, smoothly sliding from his seat to the driver’s. Before she even sat up all the way, he was shifting the stick and punching the gas. The tires wrenched against the rough pavement as they streaked off into the afternoon.

“Rhys!” she shouted, the laughter in her voice outweighing the shock.

“Best we get somewhere private, quickly,” he yelled over the roaring engine. “Unless you wanted everyone to see us ha--”

“Rhys!” she exclaimed. He shot a sly glance at her, eyes twinkling with heat and mischief. It made her stomach clench in excitement and anticipation. So one hand she intertwined with his, and the other she raised into the air, letting the wind swish and twine its way around her wiggling fingers.

Feyre whooped and felt the car thrum beneath her once, twice, before Rhys let the car go full throttle, popping the front wheels and then letting it fly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good greaser AUs end with a dance.

The screeching of tires cut through the energetic evening air of the Prythian High School’s parking lot, and Feyre didn’t care if anyone noticed.

Beneath her eager hands, she felt the steering wheel vibrate and smiled. She flexed her fingers in anticipation as she sped towards the gymnasium. She could barely hear the music from the dance over the hum of the engine; even so, she revved the engine louder. A few of their classmates loitering outside looked their way, and Feyre felt a little thrill go through her.

As if sensing her excitement, Rhys chuckled from the front passenger seat. Feyre glanced in the rearview to see Mor and Amren and the other two guys squished into the back. They were all smiling, and Mor winked at her. The car rocked a bit as she took a corner hard, and Rhys reached over to intertwine his hand with hers over the stick shift.

“Ready?” he murmured as she pulled up to the curb and parked.

“Just waiting on you,” she quipped. He grinned in response, then jumped out without opening the door and met her at the front of the car. Feyre slide her arm into the crook of his. As she stepped forward in time with him, she heard the brush of her new leather jacket–the one with the Nightwings stitchwork on the back–against the tulle of her midnight-blue dress.

The band didn’t stop dead when she walked in with Rhys and the Nightwings, but a tidal wave of loud whispers and titters did crash through the gym. Classmates kept dancing, but more than few of them glanced over to track their progress as they walked further into the dance. Feyre didn’t pay too much attention to their attention until she glimpsed the mass of green-and-gold jackets near the punch bowl.

Tamlin’s expression was thunderous when she finally found him amidst his friends. Rhys’ hand slipped around her waist, tightly. A flutter of confidence filled her, because his grip was supportive not possessive. It made all the difference.

Without a second glance at the prince of the school–she was with the _king_ , after all–Feyre turned to Mor. “Wanna dance?”

Her friend swirled her cotton candy pink skirt with a large smile. “Only if Amren does.”

“I need a smoke,” Amren immediately replied in a flat tone. Her skin-tight black and red dress shimmered in the dim lights of the gym as she high-tailed it to the bathroom.

Sighing in defeat, Feyre simply tugged Mor towards the crowded dance floor. An upbeat rock’n’roll beat filled the air; it fit their mood perfectly. Feyre twisted and shouted, shimmied and spun around with her friend for song after song after song until her stomach hurt from laughing so hard.

She was just untangling herself from a pretzel gone amusingly wrong with Mor when she heard the music change. Almost immediately, a strong and welcome arm slipped around her front.

“Can I steal a dance?” Rhys whispered in her ear.

Feyre suppressed a warm shiver as she teased, “You’ll need to ask Mor.”

When she looked back at her former partner, though, she was no longer there. Azriel was tugging her towards the edge of the floor, for what looked like a slow dance of their own. Smiling, Feyre turned in Rhys’ arms to do the same. “Looks like I’ve been left to fend for myself.”

“While you are more than capable of doing that, I’m happy to provide some assistance so you don’t have to dance all by your lonesome.”

“Acceptable,” Feyre drawled.

A long, warbling note later, she was pressed tight against Rhys. Her hands lay lightly on his chest, with his resting one above the other very low on her back. She expected a teacher to come over and reprimand them for inappropriate closeness at some point, but for now she just leaned closer. She was going to enjoy this for as long as she could.

One what felt their tenth slow turn to the music, Rhys leaned down. His lips brushed her ear, causing her to breathe in sharply, as he said, “I got us a race next week.”

Her head jerked up so fast that she almost bumped his chin. Feyre felt his chest rumble with a chuckle under her hands, which were curling into his grease-stained shirt. “What? When, where, with who?”

“Tarquin,” he said, his dark eyes glimmering with excitement. “He’s the best the Heat have. We don’t have the details worked out yet, but you’re ready.”

Feyre paused, straightening up to look Rhys directly. “Wait. _Me?_ I’m going to be racing him.”

He leaned over, his lips pressed together in amusement. “I mean, I’ll be riding shotgun, but yes, you, in the driver’s seat.”

She opened her mouth, trying to stutter out a protest, but it wouldn’t come. Her heart thudded with too much exhilaration to let her speak a lie like that. She _wanted_ this, and she _was_ ready. She really was, and she glanced up at Rhys, cheeks warming because he knew that too. His faith in her suddenly overwhelmed her, and she surged up on her toes to kiss him deeply, thoroughly, and entirely inappropriately for a school gymnasium. He took it in stride, then took over as he bent her backwards, tasting her and feeling her and making her melt from the inside out.

They were both laughing as Cassian and Mor dragged them away from the furious faculty heading in their direction. When they burst out the gym doors, the cool night air hit her like a wall, but she reveled in it. The heat inside her–from Rhys, his kiss, his confidence in her, her confidence in herself–would keep her warm enough. Feyre couldn’t contain herself much longer, so she grabbed Rhys hand and started running towards the car. The rest of the Nightwings were pounding along close behind them, joking and yelling and laughing as they all piled into the car.

In a breath, Feyre had the key in the ignition and the engine roaring. She peeled out of the parking lot, and whooped loudly and happily. She had friends behind her and Rhys beside her, the stars above her and the open road in front of her. She couldn’t ask for more, and so she put her foot on the gas and sped off into the dark night, perfectly and exhilaratingly content.

**Author's Note:**

> more parts to come! comments much appreciated :) come find me on [tumblr](http://kay-emm-gee.tumblr.com)!


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